Authors: Robin Gideon
A second later, Pamela heard conversation as the door to
Jonathon Darwell’s bedroom opened. In walked Darwell, along
with the man she recognized as Andy Fields, the busi
nessman who had tried and failed to be elected territorial
governor during the last election, and the well-known
Judge Robert Dahlmann.
The hand was still clamped tightly over Pamela’s mouth. She grabbed the stranger’s wrist with both of her hands,
trying to free herself without moving too much. The
strength of the man who had taken her from her mission
was astonishing.
“Stop fighting me, or we’ll both get caught,” the
stranger whispered. “Just stop.”
What could she do? She relaxed finally, and when she
did, she began thinking more lucidly. This man couldn’t
be one of Darwell’s bodyguards because, if he were, he
wouldn’t be hiding on the balcony.
Pamela released her hold on the stranger’s wrist and let
her hands fall loosely to her sides. She was facing the
bedroom, able to look inside through a slight parting of
the balcony curtain. The stranger, directly behind her, kept
his hand over her mouth, though not clamped as tightly
as earlier. His left arm was around her middle, resting
easily against her stomach just beneath her breasts, though still forcing the full length of
her body to press against him.
Who was he? Though she tried to pay attention to what
was happening inside the bedroom, the presence of the
man was so overpowering she could think of nothing
else. She realized as she stood there, feeling the heat of
his body seeping into her own, he had saved her from
being
caught by Jonathon Darwell.
She
hadn’t heard Darwell
approach with the
judge and Andy Fields, but the stranger
had,
and he’d carried her
out
onto the balcony—lifting her as though she weighed
nothing at all, though Pamela was
most definitely not a small woman—so she wouldn’t
be discovered.
The Colt .44 was still in its holster at her right hip,
close to her right hand. Pamela knew she could try to draw
the weapon, but what good would that do? She could
not possibly shoot her way out of the mansion. There were
far too many armed guards. Even if she
could
make it to
the grounds, she’d still have to get over the stone wall.
Once the shooting started, she wouldn’t be able to climb
over unnoticed, as she had when she’d entered earlier.
As disturbing as those questions were, Pamela could not
ignore the fact that a man she did not know, one she had
not really seen, was holding her closely pressed to his
body. She felt the heat of his left palm against her ribs,
touching her just beneath the rise of her breast
. Because her back was pressed into him, she
could tell that his stomach was flat and hard, his chest broad and powerful. From the beginning she’d realized
her captor was a tall man.
“Just be calm,” the stranger whispered, bending
slightly so that his lips were against Pamela’s ear.
When he straightened again, Pamela felt his pelvis against
her backside. Was it intentional? She could not tell, though
the touch of him was most disturbing.
Again, she grabbed the stranger’s left wrist and pushed
down on it. But he pushed against her, pressing her even
more tightly against him. His hand came up even higher on her ribs, now pressing against the taut lower curve of her breast.
“Don’t fight me or we’ll both swing from a rope,” the stranger whispered, his lips brushing Pamela’s ear as he spoke. “I’m not going to hurt you, but you mustn’t fight me.”
Pamela closed her eyes and released his wrist. He was right, of course. There wasn’t anything to be gained by fighting him, with the exception of putting some distance between her body and his.
Ignore him,
she thought, struggling mightily to con
vince herself it was possible.
Listen to what Jonathon
Darwell is saying. He’s your real enemy.
Inside the bedroom, Jonathon Darwell sat at his desk. The judge and Andy Fields were seated on the oversized sofa. Each
man held a drink from the bottle of fine cognac sitting
on the table. Darwell was saying something about how good
it was they were finally able to get away from the festivities long enough to be able to talk privately for a few moments.
As Pamela struggled to concentrate on what was going on
in the bedroom, something behind her caught her atten
tion. A faint breeze had swirled over the balcony, bringing
the edge of a midnight-black cape into her peripheral vi
sion. Her gasp of surprise was silenced by the hand still clamped over her mouth.
The Midnight Phantom!
She tried to turn in Phantom’s arms, but he held her
tightly. She tilted her head, trying to look over her shoulder, not wanting to believe that her worst fears were true. At first the hand over her mouth prevented her from looking back, then her captor relaxed his hold and allowed her
to turn just enough to look up at him.
“Yes, it’s me,” he said, smiling.
He wore a flat-crowned black Stetson, pulled low, and beneath that, a black mask over his eyes and nose. In the pale moonlight, when he smiled, Pamela could see that his
teeth were strong, even, and very white. There was a dim
ple in his left cheek and in his chin a faint cleft. He wore a black cape that apparently came down to his ankles, and
beneath that, though she could not see it, she was certain
he was garbed all in black.
Pamela had not really believed the Midnight Phantom existed. She’d thought him a story created by bored journalists who had nothing better to write about and who were
hoping to increase newspaper circulation. Now, seeing him, she could understand how the popular legend had taken the shape it had.
No wonder he was called the Midnight Phantom. Legend
had it he could transform himself into smoke and then
disappear into the night without leaving a trace or making
a sound.
She turned away from him, her heart now beating faster
than ever. The Midnight Phantom existed! He held her, at this very moment, captive, and all Pamela could think
about was whether the greatest threat to her safety was in
front of her in the form of Jonathon Darwell and the evil he represented or behind her in the form of the mysterious
Midnight Phantom.
Now that she knew who held her in his arms, Pamela felt his touch even more acutely than before. The strength of
Phantom had become fused with another element—the mys
tery of his manliness. An odd sensation passed through
Pamela as she reflected on the power that compelled this man
to do things even the bravest of men did not dare.
Very gently, Pamela touched the back of Phantom’s hand, the
one covering her mouth. The hand did not move.
“You mustn’t make a sound,” Phantom whispered, his lips
brushing against her ear as he spoke. “Promise me that.”
She nodded. She would bide her time.
The hand covering her mouth released its pressure,
hesitated a moment, then moved lower to rest very lightly
upon her shoulder. But Pamela knew he could silence her again in a heartbeat if he wanted to.
The sensation of bondage Pamela felt, trapped between dangerous men was overwhelming, infuriating, and slightly erotic. She wanted to strike out, to attack these men who frightened her, but to do that would only put her in even
greater jeopardy.
“I won’t hurt you,” Phantom whispered. “But you must
remain very quiet. Jail cells are smelly, vile places, and I
don’t intend on spending any time in them.”
Pamela could feel his lips against her ear, and she won
dered if he was leaning into her a little more than he ab
solutely had to, letting them caress her ear more than was
necessary. She felt his pelvis against the cheeks of her bottom and made very sure she did not rub against him in any fashion that could be construed as sensual.
Could she draw the Colt from its holster before he could
stop her?
Pamela had heard the stories of Phantom being lightning
quick on the draw, but she’d really never given anything concerned with the Midnight Phantom credence. Whenever
a so-called bad man surfaced in Whitetail Creek, the gossipmong
ers always made the scoundrel out to be the fastest gun
anyone had ever seen. And, almost without exception, there wasn’t a shred of truth to the story.
Bad men, criminals of one stripe or another, tended
to be cowardly, Pamela believed. She’d heard enough stories
of senseless murders, of violence, of rape, for her to know that criminals were not the types of men who fought face-
to-face. They ambushed their prey, just as Phantom had si
lently ambushed her, grabbing her from behind.
The difference was he had grabbed her so she
would not be caught by Jonathon Darwell’s untimely, unexpected entrance into his own bedroom. But if his intention
had been to save her, why hadn’t he released her? Why
was he still holding her so close that she could feel the heat of his body, his great strength, the life force that
coursed through his veins?
In the bedroom, Jonathon Darwell laughed, drawing Pamela’s
attention.
“You’re a wicked one,” Darwell said to Judge Robert Dahlmann. “I never knew you had that kind of mind.”
The judge leaned back on the sofa, smiling coyly. He
sipped the cognac and glanced at the businessman, Andy
Fields. “When Andy found out Mexicans had
stolen the horses, it was pretty much fair game on all Mexicans as far as I was concerned. Before the whole
thing was over, there’d been nearly a dozen lynchings.”
Andy Fields laughed, and Pamela thought he’d had too much to drink. “We lynched a Mex for every horse that
was stolen.”
“You got involved in it yourself?” Darwell, leaning back
in his chair, asked Fields.
Pamela noticed that Darwell brought the cognac to his mouth
often, but sips were extremely small. He wasn’t as casual
about this meeting as he tried to appear.
“Me? Nah! I don’t get into the lynchings myself, just
in case somebody’d see me. There’s gonna be another election coming up, you know. I just let the voters know where
I stand and urge them to do what they think is best.”
Judge Dahlmann was shaking his head slowly, as though he found the businessman-as-politician a buffoon, but a
valuable one. Like Darwell, the judge was taking very small
sips of his cognac, apparently careful not to let his intellect become dulled with liquor.